


Unearthed

by solonggaybowser



Category: Hustle Cat (Visual Novel)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Canon, Swearing, age difference artificially equalized, the "canon" here being sorta like graves's route except branched into a hypothetical Worst Ending, the major character death is only implied and neither avery nor graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26056954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solonggaybowser/pseuds/solonggaybowser
Summary: It's really Graves. Not even as heshouldbe, but as theyrememberhim—the black hair just starting to gray; the dark sweater finely and perpetually covered in cat hair; those stupid collar clips—the whole of him perfectly preserved, as if he was transported through time, from the night of that fateful confrontation directly to the present day.Maybe they're dreaming: he has figured in their dreams before, and every time, their subconscious couldn't be bothered to age him as they had. But this doesn't feel like a dream. Maybe they're awake. They're not sure which unsettles them more.Nacht won the duel and took A Cat's Paw for himself, as was his right. The former staff, before going their separate ways, stored the rusted remains of Graves in a casket, which Avery has been keeping hidden away in their home. One day, the lid opens and Graves returns to the land of the living...
Relationships: Avery Grey/Graves
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welp guess who finally played hustle cat after like three years of sleeping on it and then suckered himself into writing a janky left-field multi-chapter emotional rollercoaster of an au

One day, they'll thank their lucky stars they were home when it happened.

But in the present moment, Avery can only mind their heart rate as it spikes three times in rapid succession: once at the ungodly creak of old hinges piercing their condo's tepid, smothering silence, again at the thump of a heavy weight falling onto the floor of the other room, and immediately again at the accompanying cry of pain, its timbre distinctly human and masculine and _impossible_.

 _What the fuck,_ is their sole thought, incessant and sprinting in mad circles in their head, as they scramble over the couch, off the floor, towards their bedroom. _What the fuck, what the fuck._

They shove the door out of their way, and at eye level is the wooden casket, set upright to resemble a wardrobe to the unsuspecting eye, now opened and emptied of its inhabitant. Their eyes dart downward.

"What the _fuck_."

Graves is lying on the floor, flakes of rust scattered around him like so much awful confetti. One might assume he would have been content to remain there: when Avery speaks aloud, he jerks his head upward, blinks his odd eyes a couple times, and asks, "Avery? Is that you?" and it's only then that he tries to stand up.

He's not managing especially well. Seizing the first clear and reasonable impulse to occur amid their confoundment, they rush to him and holds out their hand with a half-baked, "Here, let me just..." He takes it; his fingertips are like ice, but his palm is warm enough to convince them—partially—that he did not return as one of the living dead. 

Once he's on his feet, they finally get a good, clear-headed look at him while he cracks his neck. Good god, this is really happening. It's really Graves. Not even as he _should_ be, but as they _remember_ him—the black hair just starting to gray; the dark sweater finely and perpetually covered in cat hair; those stupid collar clips—the whole of him perfectly preserved, as if he was transported through time, from the night of that fateful confrontation directly to the present day.

Maybe they're dreaming: he has figured in their dreams before, and every time, their subconscious couldn't be bothered to age him as they had. But this doesn't feel like a dream. Maybe they're awake. They're not sure which unsettles them more.

"Graves..." The name comes out in a trembling breath, from the absurd fear that speaking it would dispel whatever force binds him now to the mortal coil. "How do you feel...? Are you hurt?"

"Well, I'm uninjured, but... oh, my _bones_."

And he stretches, his arms extending out to his sides then reaching above his head. Bipedalism aside, something about it strikes Avery as rather feline. The words _big stretch!_ flit through their mind; they mentally slap some decorum back into themself.

"I do beg your pardon," he groans with a sigh. "It simply had to be done."

"It's cool. I know that feeling."

"Oh, do you?" There's a note of genuine curiosity in the question. He looks at Avery expectantly—

And at this point he must have really seen their face, because the polite smile fades away into realization. He steps closer, carefully studying their features; honestly, it's an open-book test, given their prescription glasses, their tired eyes on the cusp of wrinkling, the extra weight they've put on, et cetera. They only wait for the inevitable question.

"Avery, how long has it been?"

Without hesitation they answer: "Nineteen years."

"Years?" he repeats softly. He's astonished, but not disbelieving, not... angry. Not like, say, Avery was long ago when they learned of the cat curse. "Well." He folds his arms and looks vaguely at the floor in what seems to be contemplative silence. They leave him to it; certainly he's been given a lot to contemplate, and in their opinion, so far he's taking this remarkably well.

Maybe he's thinking about the same conundrum that had them so shocked to see him alive and well. But they don't mention it, again irrationally afraid that drawing attention to the matter would have the universe turning sharply to him, asking what the hell does he think he's doing here, and resolving him out of existence. Instead, they follow silently when he drifts into the living room.

"Well," he says again, and he looks about his environs, this time with focus. Their current place isn't as bad as the disordered apartment he once mistook for burglarized, but it's hardly a huge leap forward either. Still, he looks with an uncritical eye, before finally turning back to them. "I'm truly sorry, but... if I could, perhaps, remain in your abode for the time being—"

"Oh yeah, of course, dude. Mi shitty condo es su shitty condo. Stay as long as you like." Turning him away isn't even on the table, despite that on their personal rankings of people they're mentally prepared to share a living space with, a revived Graves is firmly in the bottom ten. It's just that, at this point in time, he must have so little. Depending on how many of his possessions had been kept in his apartment above A Cat's Paw, he might have nothing at all.

"Many thanks." He flashes a relieved smile and quickly continues, "So, do you happen to have some time to talk?"

"Yeah, I have a few hours before I gotta go. Bet you have a lot of questions, huh?"

"Yes. I imagine much has passed in my absence."

It's the understatement of a lifetime. God knows if Avery had the opportunity to rewind to the year 2015 and, say, fall into a cursed slumber for the two decades after (or even longer, ideally), they wouldn't think twice. As things are now, the mere thought of recounting all the major political, cultural, technological, environmental happenings of the time fatigues them to their very soul. They wouldn't make it through the past six months without having to lie down.

But none of that comes up. His first question is simply, "How are the others?"

"The others?" they repeat, not quite following.

"If you're here, then the other..." He trails off, a grim comprehension dawning on his face. "Or... are you the only survivor?"

They hurry to assure him, "Oh, no, no, they're all still kicking. But... um..." To answer his original question is not as easy. They think about dredging up all those old, bitter memories, and again they're sorely tempted to lie down.

But Graves is in need of an answer, and the task has fallen to them. They sigh and nod towards the front door. "You up for a walk? It'll be easier for me that way."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's content advisories: food; major character unfortunate fates; brief referenced racism and misogyny; brief implied violence and murder. it's also worth re-emphasizing the Depression additional tag; that'll be present throughout the fic.
> 
> don't tell no one but this is kind of a vent fic in disguise too

"There's a lot. I might not be able to tell it all. At least, not all at once."

"I'll be grateful for anything you can tell me."

It's a pleasant afternoon as they walk through the nearby park. The weather has cooled down a lot over the previous week, thank god, though of course not yet to the point of what Avery would call sweater weather. (They warned Graves of it before leaving, but he insisted he would be fine. Which they kind of expected; no doubt he's endured worse for the sake of his brand.) They pass by children running and playing, people walking their dogs, a world around them happily oblivious to their current ordeal.

"Um... if you could, like, try not to say things, it would help... help me focus..."

"I understand. Go ahead."

They start at the beginning.

"We all scattered pretty soon after it happened. A Cat's Paw was gone—Nacht Took it and ended up burning it down—" already they notice Graves wanting to interject, but he catches himself. They silently promise to explain that later— "so there wasn't much keeping us there, you know? But before we left, we wanted to give you a proper burial, with a nice coffin, all dark and fancy with upholstery and shit, 'cuz we were like, 'It's what he would've wanted,' but it turns out those are fricking expensive. And we couldn't literally bury you either; what if someone else ever, like, found you? Magical spreading rust aside, it just _looks_ really bad, right?

"So, uh, in the end Landry made a big box and we put you in that. And then somehow we logicked ourselves into this idea that, well, if we can't bury the box or drop it into the ocean or something, then one of us has to take it with them. It's a huge thing to ask of someone, right, and we're all sorta standing around in this awkward silence, and I just... happened to be the first to raise their hand.

"Sooo... yeah. For the 19 years after that, you've been, hanging out, as a statue, in my 'wardrobe'. I hid you pretty well, I think. Or good enough. Never had people over if I could help it—not that my places were ever, you know, in a presentable enough state to have people over. No one's ever opened that coffin. Except me, like, once... and I guess also you, just now."

They fall silent, unsure what next to say. Already they've failed to explain this in some organized way. Graves nudges them, "What's happened with all of you in the interim?"

"Yeah... last I remember...

"Finley's had a lot of ups and downs. She's cycled through a lot of different jobs to get by: writer, video editor, journalist, social media manager, content creator, uh, probably other stuff I'm forgetting. Never paid super great, but she's passionate about all that internet-related stuff. Even the misogynists and racists and all couldn't stop her, and there's a hell of a lot of 'em. Some of them were her employers, if she was unlucky. But yeah, still at it today, I'm pretty sure.

"Reese, well, he took it really hard." ("Yes, I was afraid he might," remarks Graves sadly.) "He, like... after we found out what happened to you, he wanted to get back at Nacht for it; I mean, we all did pretty much. Ha, no one except him and me even knew any magic at the time, but it was like, pfff, fuck it, you know? Except it turns out, a guy like Nacht? Not exactly good at making friends. A bunch of opportunistic witches smelled all the magic, or something, and they came out of the woodwork to get his ass. It all happened so quick, we couldn't really do anything about it... They almost had him, I think, and at the last second Nacht set the building on fire and got away. Never saw him again.

"Anyway, Reese, though, he was all torn up for a long while. Nothing we said or did seemed to help him any, and—..." They reconsider what they're about to say, that they never could shake the feeling that he blamed them for all of this. Why talk shit about him like that? No longer did they have it in their heart to fault him for his grief in his youth. "Eventually he went back home to work for his parents' company. Dunno if it worked out for him... I think he's still there, so, might not be terrible.

"Mason probably has the most normal and stable life out of all of us. Still baking and cooking for a living. Actually, I guess I lied when I said we all left after the fight... she stuck around the city for years afterward. We kinda thought she was out of her mind, but we just couldn't get her to leave. And then one day she just up and moves to the other side of the country! Still dunno what that was about... she never wanted to talk about it.

"Hayes, I've actually seen pretty often. He struggled a lot with finding stable employment and, you know, generally living life. So whenever he had nowhere to go, and, like, he was _really_ desperate, he asked if he could stay at my place. And I never minded; he was always welcome, even if it was kind of... weird... Like, it's not that he _made_ it weird, but... all that history, you know. That huge-ass elephant in the room neither of us wanted to address... But anyway, he hasn't stayed over in a while. He started taking anxiety meds and I think found a job he can tolerate, so, good for him."

Again they pause, and again Graves prompts, "And what of Landry?" but this time it doesn't make it any easier.

They forge on. "Yeah... Landry. He... I dunno, man. We ask him how he is or where he is or what he does, and he never gives a straight answer. And every time we talk to him, he kind of... he's only gotten weirder. I get this feeling that... like... he got mixed up in something he's not proud of."

"Such as what, do you think?"

They've got a hunch.

They think back on all those articles they've read over the years, about the accidental deaths of domestic abusers, corrupt cops, crypto-fascists, serial killers... by electrocution, electrical fires, freak lightning strikes... But it's only a hunch. No proof to back it up, and frankly Avery is glad for it. With reasonable doubt, they won't make such an extreme accusation against their friend, who had been so cheerful and welcoming when they first met him all those years ago.

"I'd rather not say."

"Very well. Then, what of you?"

On one hand, it's a relief to not have to tell him more about the others. There's a lot of shit to sort through. On the other hand, this is the one topic that's worse.

"Me?" stalls Avery weakly.

"Yes, you. I know you weren't rusting with me in that casket; what have you been up to?"

They shrug and mumble, "Nothing much."

"Avery, please. I'm asking because I want to know."

"I'm serious! You saw the state of my place; no 39-year-old on the planet who's got their shit together lives like that."

"Thirty-nine? You said it's been 19 years."

"Uh, well, it's the first of September and my birthday was in June."

"Ah." He's quiet for just long enough that they wonder if they had miraculously evaded the question, and then he says, "I won't pass judgment if that's your concern. Whatever you want to say, I'll listen."

That's not quite their concern, as a matter of fact. Regardless, they appreciate the sentiment, and they wonder if they can muster something halfway sufficient.

"Well... I'm a janitor at a nearby school right now. Apparently, trash is just permanently woven into the fabric of my life. I've lived alone, because roommates, in shitty condos, because landlords. For real though, there's not that much to say about myself. Shockingly little has changed since you last saw me... It's just been, one day after another, all my life."

For all his morbid aesthetics, they've never known Graves to be severe or cold-hearted. Even so, it strikes them, how gentle and sympathetic he sounds in his response: "It seems that life hasn't been particularly kind to you."

They still don't want to say any more about it. "It's whatever," is all they can say, shrugging again.

He doesn't push the matter any further, and the conversation lulls.

_Life hasn't been kind._ By now, Avery knows that life has no reason to be kind. Sure, _people_ can be kind, but never the ones that matter the most. Never the ones with power. And that won't change, nothing will change, not until long after they were—

Forget it. Forget it...

It's an effort to get the words out, but they do it. "You hungry?" They're trite and stilted but it doesn't matter; any words will do. "We could grab something to eat while we're out."

Out of the corner of their eye, they think they see Graves glancing at them. He says, "Yes, now that you mention it, I'm quite famished." And he savors his next words as if they're Poe verses: "Why, it's as though I've not eaten in _years_."

"Shut up." _Those_ words shoot out before Avery can think of stopping them. There's about one harrowing second of shame, then Graves's low, self-satisfied chuckle registers in their ears, and they understand completely. "I can't believe this. God! You've been awake for like an hour and you're already cracking jokes—you're gonna repeat it at least a dozen more times, aren't you."

"As men of a certain age are wont to do."

" _Ugh._ So are you actually hungry, or—"

"Yes, yes, I'd love to eat."

Their mood lightens with the conversation. Well, that's no surprise. It's easier like this, and has been for a while. Distracting themself, ignoring the hard feelings. What's the use of ruminating on the bad? It hurts the most when they pay attention to it, so they don't, or try not to. Focus on the present. One day after another.

What's rather unexpected is how easily the idle chatter comes to the two of them. They don't remember him being this charismatic—or, wait, yes they do. The memory is faint, but they must have spoken like this at one point, the walls lowered, slightly, for an evening. And they know now (and they think they knew before but had forgotten) that he's not just some sort of character in a play, strictly defined by his costume and his script. Nor is he a folkloric being, nor a force of nature... It was easy to forget, when they were young and he seemed to loom, so grand, so distant, so untouchable. Today, with age and a sliver of wisdom on their side, they can see him a little more clearly.

Graves is a real person. No more and no less than that. And he makes dad jokes.

He is also, for some reason, very tired.

It's impossible not to notice it when they're in the sandwich shop and Avery brings their food to the table. He has his head propped heavily against his hand and he barely reacts to the caprese sandwich they set in front of him, the only sign of life being a couple slow blinks.

"You okay there, buddy?" they ask before biting into their tuna melt.

"Mm. Funny how my fatigue reveals itself only upon sitting and resting for a moment." Regardless, he manages to straighten up and eat his food.

It's a temporary victory. The next time Avery leaves the table and comes back, this time to return the tray and plates, they find him with his head resting in his arms. They can't help but laugh.

He lifts his head just enough to say something, but the first thing out of him is a yawn, his hands politely covering his mouth. " _Christ_ , I'm knackered. What on earth is wrong with me?"

"I mean, you haven't _slept_ in years either..."

"Very good, Avery."

Wait, maybe there's something to that. "You know, it was pretty late when you got cursed, wasn't it? Then you get uncursed and your body still thinks it's night... Dude, you're like, jetlagged," they laugh again.

His head back down, he mutters a muffled, "Splendid," into the table.

"Come on, Graves—" They give his shoulder a couple of pats for emphasis; at the touch he sits up and regards them curiously— "let's get you home."

He follows them out of the shop. "Home? Already?"

"Well, yeah, you were about to use your sandwich as a pillow, weren't you?"

"Shouldn't I first acquire some... mm, life essentials?"

"Just use my crap. I got enough to spare that we can put it off for a few sleep cycles. Hell, there's even a fresh pack of underwear I bought last week and only just washed today. It's your lucky day."

"W... will your clothes fit me...?"

"Maybe!" is their chipper response. "I figure my fat ass is close enough to your tall ass."

"Hmm," he grunts in an uncertain tone, though he says no more about it.

Once they're back, Avery wastes no time in gathering stuff for him—they've got errands to run and a job to do.

"All right, here's the biggest clothes I got; basic toiletries; if you're gonna shower then just use whatever I have out. Same with food: just eat whatever; I super don't care. You can watch TV or use my laptop too if you want." They exhale, in preface of a slightly awkward question. "Uhhh, so, do you wanna, like, take the bedroom? And then I'll move my crap into the living room and sleep on the couch."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine. If you'll recall, I'm not overly concerned about my domestic privacy."

"Well, sure, but I also work a lot of nights, you know? I don't wanna come in late and wake you up or anything."

"Ah, I see. No, that won't be an issue either. I sleep like... well, excuse the obvious simile, I sleep like the dead."

"Okay, if you're sure. Lemme grab some blankets then." They return with a stack of them and set it on the couch. "Figure out what you want and just leave the rest on my bed." Then they fold their arms and fix him with a serious look. "Now obviously I won't be around to keep an eye on you, but you better get some sleep, you hear me?"

"Yes, understood," he says evenly, but the shadow of a grin twitches at his mouth.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Your concern is... touching."

That takes them aback. Concern? This was just... the thing to do, wasn't it? "Yeah, what, all this time living with your rusty ass, and when you're finally back I'm just gonna leave you high and dry?"

"Not to imply _you're_ guilty of this, but it's not unheard of for someone to favor the _idea_ of a person over the person themself."

"Ain't that the truth," they muse quietly. Their feet lead them dutifully to the front door. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Wait, Avery, one more thing... Would you mind terribly if I tidied up a little?"

The way he looks at them is almost, apologetic... And in their mind the memory lights up, and it's one they laugh at. Yep, that's Graves, all right.

"Knock yourself out."


End file.
